


How I Spent my Summer Vacation

by StonedFool (SoberJester)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, M/M, Motorcycle Sex, Wetting, bladder desperation, initial dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-04
Updated: 2011-11-04
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:26:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoberJester/pseuds/StonedFool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nine tracks later, you cut the music off. You were contemplating pissing on him and his stupid bike in the names of irony and fuck you Bro Strider. You had a feeling it wouldn’t be worth it to have him beat you halfway into a coma before he made you clean off the entire thing with your own toothbrush. Gog only knew he’d probably make you sponge bathe him, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How I Spent my Summer Vacation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marty/gifts).



> Response to a prompt in the kink meme: http://homesmut.livejournal.com/11448.html?thread=18609336#t18609336

It had become pretty typical for Bro to take you along on some pretty extensive road trips in the summers. Driving all day, followed by him partying and filming all night while you watched crappy movies and crashed. He, on the other hand, seemed to be running on the powers of sex and magic. The last time you’d seen him anywhere close to sleeping was the one morning he’d been passed out drunk and unconscious on top of you when you'd woken up.

That was then, though. Right now, you were on the road again.

Now, it was practically required of road trips for you to have an iron bladder. It was all the more important when riding a motorcycle twice the speed limit on the freeway. The swerving and the rumbling of the engine was hell on one's willpower.

Maybe if you'd been driving, you wouldn't be in this mess. You’d _wanted_ him to show you how to drive the bike, but he’d denied your first request and begging wasn’t even cool ironically, so you’d flipped him the bird and climbed back onto the bitch seat.

So at first, you’d been okay. A little pressure, nothing big. It wasn’t like you’d ever had to hold it before.

Another three hours had passed of nothing but empty stretches of road. Aside, of course, from the few gas stations you’d watched blast past with a hint of longing on your mind.

Another station passed and you tried to peer around the bigger body to see the fuel gage. Bro elbowed you back into place without hesitation. A few minutes passed with nothing but the dull thump of beats from your ear buds and the shriek of wind around you. A cramp was growing in your gut and you had a feeling from the surroundings that that had been the last station for a while.

Your body screamed at you, and you finally gave in, turning off first your own music and then awkwardly feeling the pocket your hand already rested on to find his. He batted your hand away the first time, but seemed to realize what you were doing when you tried again and allowed you to turn his iPhone’s player off.

“Bro?!”

It was hard to be loud enough when you were going 110 MPH and you couldn’t tell if your brother actually heard you over the raging winds flowing around you, but his head tipped ever so slightly in your direction. Acknowledgement.

Hopefully.

“Pull over! I need to piss!”

A pause, and then he shook his head shortly and turned his face back to the front, gestured to turn his music back on. Oh fuck no, he was not dismissing you. Not now. There was no way in hell that you were pissing yourself on his bike just because he decided you could hold it. You patted his stomach to get his attention again, taking a deep breath.

“Come on! Pull over!”

The engine revved and the bike sped up, but that was the only sign he’d heard you.

You turned both of your music players back on and pressed your helmeted face into his back, curling around your aching abdomen in hopes that he would take pity on you soon. A couple of years in high school had taught you to hold it for seven plus hours. You could make it.

Nine tracks later, you cut the music off. You were contemplating pissing on him and his stupid bike in the names of irony and fuck you Bro Strider. You had a feeling it wouldn’t be worth it to have him beat you halfway into a coma before he made you clean off the entire thing with your own toothbrush. Gog only knew he’d probably make you sponge bathe him, too.

The image of your brother dripping wet and wearing nothing but a towel flashed through your mind, and you cringed so hard you actually froze and waited for him to tell you off for breaking face. Less than a second passed before you realized that you were sitting behind him and that that was stupid. At least you’d been distracted for a moment, but now you were squirming again and tears were pressing against the backs of your eyes more insistently than they had in years.

You groan and thump your head softly against his back, trying to squeeze your legs together. New problem: Bro’s ass is in the way of taking proper I-need-to-piss-really-bad position. You patted his side more urgently, hoping you’d lasted long enough for him to stop being an asshole for five fucking minutes. He slowed and that almost had you sobbing in relief until you realized he was now simply going the speed limit. He was just fucking with you.

Your entire body trembled with rage, upset, and _sweet Gog please I need to go_. Despite you resisting it, you felt the tears trickling down your cheeks. Fumbling with his jacket pocket, you cut off his music again, then reached up and slid the visor of your helmet up an inch or two. A blast of wind pushed the tears back, drying your face in two cold tracks. “Bro, _please_!” The begging would cost you all of the cool points – all of them – but if Bro realized that it wasn't funny anymore maybe he'd at least pity your lame ass.

You didn't turn your music back on, and you refused to turn his on either. He didn't make any gesture to indicate he cared, so you simply curled into his back and tried to imagine you weren't on a bumpy road with a bladder ready to burst. You were not going to piss on the bike. You were not going to piss on the bike. You were not going to piss on the bike. The words became your mantra, your eyes shut tight and your mind latching onto that one concept.

_You were not going to piss on the bike._

Your entire body was trembling and you were blank except for the aching need in your body when you realized that the motor had turned off. Bro shifted and shrugged you away. You were still in the middle of fucking nowhere, nothing but nothing for miles around. You sucked in a deep breath and jumped off, bolting to the edge of the road and fumbling to take your gloves off so that you could unzip and—

Big hands, far too gentle when you knew the pain they could inflict, caught your wrists before you managed to free yourself in any way. Bro's chest pressed against your back and his chin settled on your shoulder. His helmet was gone. You hadn't bothered wrestling yours off. Your breath quickened, and not just because of the sick fantasies you sometimes had. This was not the time, seriously. Your gut was squeezed so tight it could probably carve diamonds right now. “ _Bro_. This really isn't funny anymore, holy shit.” Both wrists were squeezed tight in one hand, and the other casually undid the chinstrap of your helmet, then lifted it off your head and leaned to set it down. Taking a deep gasp of air, you tried to wrestle away. “Bro seriously!”

“Then go.”

“I can't, you're—”

“Like this. Right now.”

You froze, standing there shaking. Your mind tried to unmuddle what he had just said, but it was so painfully clear already that all you managed to do was confuse yourself even more. Finally, a choked sob escaped you and you slumped against him. Warmth spread down your thighs and up your crotch and you shuddered as relief to a level that you'd almost put on par with orgasm spread through you.

Even more, the disgust that curled through your belly made you want to throw up.

Meanwhile, Bro was mouthing at your neck. You dimly realized he must have pulled your collar out of the way for you to feel it. His hips pressed closer behind you and _holy fuck_.

Finally managing to rip yourself away, you turned on him with what was most likely a look of pure unadulterated fury on your face. Really, it was either that or humiliation. “You were _getting off on this?_ ” The fact that it surprised you was probably more surprising than the discovery itself. Between the puppets, websites, and constant stream of feminine undergarments that went through your wash when there has never been a female in your apartment _ever_ , you already knew Bro was a twisted fuck.

He stepped forward again and you let him. His, for once fully gloved, fingers slid gently through your hair and he leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to your lips. You tensed, resisting the tears burning the backs of your eyes more intensely than you ever had when you were on his fucking bike. Fists clenching, you readied yourself to defend yourself and punch him. Since you'd gotten so much closer to him in strength, he'd gotten cheaper in the tricks he'd use to catch you off guard. He wasn't going to, though, not this time. Bro just rolled his eyes. You blinked as his nostrils flared, and the corners of his lips quirked up. “You smell good, bro.”

You sniffed the air and it was filled with the scent of reek. Wincing, you reluctantly—not reluctantly enough—pressed your nose into his shirt, mumbling, “I smell like piss.”

The other hand cupped your cheek, pressing you back just enough for him to peer into your face again. “Like I said.”

“...oh.” You swallowed, flicked your eyes down. Sighed, squirmed in place. You could afford a little insecure fuck right now. You hadn't pissed your pants since you were five and you didn't really want to spend any more time considering what kind of person your bro was to be turned on by the kid he'd changed the diapers of.

You didn't want to contemplate what kind of person _you_ were to be turned on by the guy that had raised you.

He seemed to sense this and tipped your chin back up for you, giving you another slow, near-innocent kiss. He bit your lip lightly, pulled back just a little. Your face was probably pink. Just a little. Despite feeling disgusting and damp and _disgusting_ , you could feel your dick twitching in interest under your piss-soaked jeans and boxers. Still one step ahead, his fingers appeared at your fly even as this happened, tugging open your belt and flicking the button loose on your pants with a few quick movements of his wrist. What you weren't expecting to immediately follow that was him disappearing, sending you stumbling. Apparently you'd been leaning on him. Go figure. “Go around the bike and take those off. There's baby wipes under the seat.” He was bending to pick up your helmet. Your lips twitched, unsure whether to move into a smile or scowl. Prepared motherfucker.

“And what, change?” You'd already started moving, following his instructions and striding around the bike – pulled over off the road already and balanced by the ironically dorky sidecar with the flame decal, currently filled with the huge suitcase of your combined shit and two backpacks.

Bro sounded nonchalant in his reply as he pulled his gloves off and tucked them into your helmet while he followed. “Nah.” He hung the helmet on the unoccupied handlebar, popping the seat compartment open.

You shot him a look. Tugged off your own gloves and handed them to him before delicately undoing your zipper while touching the smallest amount of wet denim possible. It was barely unzipped when your pants and boxers were roughly ripped down your legs and a wet cloth was running over your half-erect dick, an arm around your waist and a hard body against your back again. That thick evidence of him getting off on your misery grinding into your bare ass. You shivered. The stupid diaper wipe was cold on your hot skin, even under this hot ass sun that was probably going to burn your pale ass before Bro was finished with you. Oddly, you didn't give a fuck.

A booted foot nudged between your own, and you reluctantly spread your legs a little wider. The cloth stroked you a couple of times, tempting more blood to the area as he cleaned you off, leaving you even harder as he drifted off to wipe down the rest of your pelvis, your balls, the insides of your thighs, brushed behind your junk. A knuckle rubbed up against that spot and you whimpered, leaning back against him. He tossed the cloth aside like an asshole and produced another one out of seemingly nowhere, though for a moment you would have sworn you were tipping backward. The whole process was repeated over again, and then he folded it in half and wiped off his fingers before sending the second wipe after the first one. “Stand up.”

Welp. If you were going to do this much awkward, blasphemous shit, you might as well follow through with the rest of it.

Following his order, you kept yourself balanced as he disappeared and reappeared kneeling at your feet. Your erection jumped at the idea that he might suck you off, but he simply untied your laces one foot after the other. He lifted one foot, you set your hand on his shoulder for balance. He pulled the boot off long enough to drag the bundled clothing over your socked foot, before replacing the footwear and repeating the process with your other leg. Your brows pinched, and though you didn't really make any struggle to get away, you did start a “What the fuck, Bro—” as he settled your second foot down. He stood, lifted you right off your feet, and flash stepped to the motorcycle. You blinked rapidly as you were set down, waiting for your mind to catch up to the sudden change of position and location. He'd always had a habit of grabbing you and flash stepping around. It had been fun as a kid, even after he decided parkouring with you on his back was a good idea, and then one day you hadn't kept a tight enough grip and had experienced your first broken bone. Since then you'd always been apprehensive as hell whenever he decided to haul you around like a sack of potatoes. Seriously, he wasn't even that much bigger than you anymore.

By now he was fiddling with a zipper. You frowned. “I told you to stop doing that!” Annoyed, you kicked at him.

At least, you tried, anyway. Bro caught your foot and smirked at you, uncovered eyes twinkling with evil that you would probably never be able to comprehend. Your heart very nearly stopped as he dropped your foot, and then, with almost an almost obnoxious lack of speed, unbuttoned and dragged down his zipper. The snug denim only slipped a little, but it was enough to see that he wasn't wearing any of the ironic silkies today before he pulled his dick out and stepped between your splayed knees. You vowed to never admit the squeak you let out, nor the wanting whine when he leaned in and gripped your sticky-clean meat puppet (oh God you were turning into him and you weren't sure if you wanted the puppet euphemisms that came with that role) against his. He let out a grunt of his own and his hand clenched a little tighter. You knew this was wrong as hell, but it felt amazing and you didn't give a fuck. Bro obviously didn't either, and didn't protest when you pressed your face against his neck, out of the way of the open leather jacket that matched your own. His other hand slid under the hem of your shirt, sliding up your back.


End file.
